No Port In The Storm

Today has been a bad day. A very bad day. And I cannot write about it. And it sucks.

I flatter myself that this space is not a diary. That it’s a space for writing. No, wait – that it’s a space for Writing. With a capital W.

Then I have a bad day, a very bad day in which very bad words are spoken and very bad feelings are provoked and, just, bad. But it’s a bad day involving persons whose stories I have no license to tell. And so I feel the constraints of this “space.” I am bursting, busting, to work through the bad feelings by writing about them, but. But. I can’t. I can flirt with those words in the Basement, but even that space remains unprivate, for me.

And here’s the thing (sweet Flutter advised writing on paper and then burning that paper) – I don’t want it to be private – the effectiveness of the therapy that is this blog resides in large part in the openness of this blog. In the fact of the audience. In you, who would tell me if I were crazy, or unjustified in my frustration. I don’t want to scratch my feelings out in ink, and then burn them into oblivion. I want to tell my story, and hear it echoed back, and hear the responses, the reactions, of friends.

But I can’t. So I’m having a martini, and hoping that my heart won’t hurt so much tomorrow, or the next day.